


Wrists of Idleness

by Rulerofthefakeempire



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Hanzo Shimada, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Forgiveness, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, Hanzo Shimada is Bad at making choices under pressure, Jesse McCree is big mad but also uncontrollably devoted, Kid Fic, M/M, What a good time, Y'all remember being seven and filled with chaotic energy?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:46:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24016918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rulerofthefakeempire/pseuds/Rulerofthefakeempire
Summary: McCree gestured wildly, looking down at him with eyes hard enough to stop bullets, teeth bared, “Hanzo, could you explain what the fuck is going on.”He was just about to respond, to explain, desperately wanting to explain, when Genji burst through the kitchen door, hair going in all directions, in his superhero pyjamas, and all eyes swung towards him.“Hello, brother,” he said, talking loud, “what’s a fuck?”
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 14
Kudos: 143





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all. 
> 
> The title of this one comes from a lovely little poem from Mary Oliver, to whom I am devoted to on an anatomical level, the full quote being: 
> 
> “And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money, I don't even want to come in out of the rain.”

He woke in a cold sweat to the sound of bowie knife being slid under the lock of a window, waking up all tangled in his sheets, eyes wide at the ceiling. 

Next came the sound of footfalls, boots on the wooden floorboards, not very stealthy but inside his house, in his house, in his fucking house. Panic slithered through his spine like a string snapping taunt, breath seizing in his lungs as he slid off his covers and crept from bed, steps quiet, unclipping the spare 40’ caliber from the back of his dresser, heart pounding in his chest, blood rushing through his ears, safety off, teeth grit in his mouth. 

He found McCree going though his fridge in the darkness. 

He found him with the window jimmied open and his gun on the dining table, dressed in his combat gear and scratching his beard, unchanged. And Hanzo knew it was him just by his shoulders, by his height, by the way he moved. He knew it was him, his McCree, but in a half moment his fear shifted into rage, all that energy with nowhere to go, furious at the intrusion, at the fright he’d gotten, weapon raised and cocked just so that McCree would hear the click. 

McCree didn’t even stiffen, just turned back to him with a punnet of strawberries in his hand, looking exactly as he had before, as though he hadn’t even been living during these months they’d spent separated, as though he’d been just waiting to be called back to his side. 

Hanzo banished the thought and snarled at him. 

“Well, hey, partner.” McCree lip curled back as he spoke, something hard and evil in his eyes, as though he wasn’t himself, had become someone else, someone who didn’t smile at him, should have smiled at him. In the back of Hanzo’s mind, a small alarm bell began to ring. There was a new scar since they’d last seen each other, still raised and red just under his jaw, evidence of another that had probably meant to kill him, had failed.

“Jesse McCree,” his voice came out low and venomous, “what the fuck do you think you’re doing in my house?” 

McCree’s raised an eyebrow, all gestures bitter. 

“Well, if I recall correctly, Hanzo, you asked me to be here,” McCree leant forward, towards the gun, something powerful and angry flaring his eyes, “I need your help, were the words you used I believe,” his arm swept open, “So here I am, as requested, having dropped everything to come and get you, you asshole,” his curled lip dropped away into an outright snarl and Hanzo took a step back as McCree stepped forward.

“And I should remind you, Hanzo, that I haven’t heard from you in fucking months.” Hanzo watched as he flashed his canines, wrinkling his nose like a dog at a door, “and here you are, roosting in the goddamn suburbs like I haven't been out there fucking _looking_ for you.” Before Hanzo could tell him to back off McCree was in front of him, gun pressed into his armour, looking down at him all hard eyed and fierce. "Where the fuck have you been, Hanzo?" Hanzo pushed back against him with a snarl, holding tighter onto his own anger, the rage that flared through him like fear. 

“Isn't it obvious,” he hissed back, "you mustn't have been looking very hard." 

“Hanzo, Jesus Christ,” McCree loomed over him, twitching with fury, “I thought you were fucking _dead_.” His expression twisted as he spoke and for just a moment a sliver of honest anguish shone through the anger, of pain, of hurt, and for just a moment he felt ashamed. 

He hadn’t thought of it then, when he’d left. He hadn’t thought of McCree, so wrapped up in his own fear, in the terror that had coiled itself around his heart and stayed there, knowing nothing but that he had to leave, he had to go, wanted with sudden terrible certainty to go. 

But standing in front of him, looking at him for the first time in months, even snarling at each other in the middle of the night, all he wanted to say was _I missed you._ He’d had to go, he couldn’t have stayed, but once he was gone he'd missed him, his McCree. He’d missed him like missing a limb, like a childhood smell, like a song with half the words forgotten. He missed the way he held himself and the way he spoke, the way he smiled and thought aloud. He missed the way he wore his hair and trimmed his beard and hummed while he worked, missed the sound of his breathing in the night and his broad shouldered silhouette in the door. He missed it all and couldn’t understand how he hadn’t known he would.

They’d worked together for years, in and out of trucks and hotel rooms, mission after mission, always within arms reach, reliable like a dinner bell, a companion for so long it was as if he’d forgotten he’d ever been just one. Of course, he’d missed him. He’d missed him so badly that he went looking for him in a house he wasn’t in and when he wasn’t there something in him ached. 

“Jesse, hush _-_ please, just, let me explain _._ ”

“Good, please do, please explain what the fuck is going on,” McCree gestured wildly, looking down at him with eyes hard enough to stop bullets, teeth bared. 

He was just about to respond when Genji burst through the kitchen door, hair going in all directions, in his superhero pyjamas, and all eyes swung towards him. 

“Hello, brother,” he said, talking loud, “what’s a fuck?” 

“Genji!” Hanzo snapped, panic clawing its way up his throat, pushing the 40’ caliber into McCree’s hands as he started towards him, hands extended, “don’t use that word, go back to bed.” 

“But brother,” Genji protested as Hanzo pushed him back out the door he’d come through, “who is that man? Why is he in our house? Whats happening?” Always so full of questions, always wanting to know what was going on, what was happening. Hanzo prayed that for once in his short life he dropped the topic, prayed that all of this got easier, that the damage hadn’t already been done, that this was salvageable.

“None of your business, go to bed!” 

He slammed the door with Genji stuck on one side of it, him and McCree on the other, none of this going the way he’d wanted it to. 

When he’d sent that note to McCree, called for him, he hadn’t thought he’d just show up, just appear, demanding answers too. When he’d sent that note he’d thought he’d have the time to find the words that would best explain, he’d hoped to tell it like a story, from beginning to end, none of this coming in halfway through bullshit, no context to cushion the blow. And for a moment he kept from turning back to McCree, his eyes squeezed closed, heart still pounding, listening to Genji stomping back to his room with all the resentment his little body could muster. 

When he did finally glance back, McCree was staring at him with his mouth agape. 

He’d worked with McCree for a long time, he knew how hard it was to catch him off guard, and yet McCree was staring at him like he was having to recalibrate every thought he'd ever had in his entire life.

“Oh my god,” McCree said eventually, still holding the 40’ to his chest, blinking rapidly, “oh my _god_.” Hanzo took a step towards him, hands out.

“McCree, please don’t make assumptions-” 

“You have a kid!” 

And for some reason, he answered:

“You don’t know that.” 

McCree stared at him, eyebrows together, gesturing fiercely towards the door. 

“He looks _exactly_ like you.” 

“Okay, yes, that is true,” Hanzo conceded, placing his hands squarely on McCree’s shoulders as if to ground him in reality, focus his attention back on him, “He’s my brother, don’t panic.” 

“Your brother?” McCree’s voice went breathy, as though he was running out of air. 

“Don’t panic,” Hanzo reminded him, pushing him backwards until he collapsed into one of the dining chairs, “breath deeply, Jesse, would you like something to drink?” 

“Fuck no, Hanzo,” his voice was rough, hard, the bad hand clenched into a fist on the table. “Could you please tell me what the fuck is going on?” He stared all fierce and horrified as Hanzo sat across from him with the good rice wine and two glasses, clinking together as he set them down, not caring that he’d said no. 

McCree’s gaze was guarded, angry, but even so he looked tired, dishevelled, like he really had dropped everything to come, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t slept to come looking for him. And for lack of a meal Hanzo filled the glass in front of him like it was the only apology he could offer. Everything in him wanted to start pulling ingredients from the shelves, to call the local restaurants knowing they’d be closed, some part of him so relieved to see he was still living, in his kitchen still breathing, even if he was furious. 

And he was so furious, dark circles under his eyes, shoulders coiled, sunken cheeks, not touching the drink like a caged animal suspicious of all gifts.

“I hadn’t meant for you to worry so badly, Jesse,” Hanzo said eventually, voice soft. 

And he hadn’t, truely he hadn’t. Years with McCree, bed after bed, closer to no other person, knowing him like the back of his hand, every scar, every habit, knowing him like a piece of music. He knew every note, had waited with silence in his ears for months for it to come back, for the tune to return. And it made him want to reach out across the table and hold his hands, to whisper, _I missed you. I missed you._

And that he was sorry. 

McCree looked up at him, pain in his eyes, in his combat gear, canines catching the light, so full of rage, Hanzo stuck with the knowledge that it was him that had been treacherous. 

“Just explain, Hanzo, spit it out.” 

Hanzo looked down at his hands as he gathered his courage to speak, swirling wine around in his glass as he bit his lip and tried to find the words. 

“The boy-The boy’s name is Genji, he’s seven years old.” And he wanted to tell McCree everything, every little detail, every unexpected delight, every challenge he’d failed to meet, all the mistakes he kept making, over and over, how inept he felt all the time, the worry that couldn’t be moved from his belly. He wanted to tell him because it was McCree, because McCree knew all else about him, was the keeper of all his secrets, would understand, would probably have answers, and if not answers then comfort. But for a moment he couldn't even think where to start. 

“He likes backpacks in the shape of cartoon characters, and kung fu movies, and ice cream. He eats so much, all the time, he's always hungry. Eight months ago his mother, a mistress of my father's, died in a car accident,” he shrugged, eyes down on his hands, “Apparently, she’d tracked my civilian alias down before her death so that if anything happened to her, Genji would come to me instead of social services,” he raised his eyes to find McCree looking back at him, “I said yes.” 

For a long moment, they were both silent, staring down at their glasses until McCree finally spoke. 

“You could have told me, I would have helped,” there was something bitter and mournful in his voice, “I wouldn’t have tried to make you stay, not with a kid.” 

“I couldn’t risk it,” he answered, knowing that it was true, “I didn’t think I could ask that of you then.” 

He hadn’t realised it would be as painful as this, to talk to him and know that he was hurt and angry and had come anyway, would have told no one, dropped everything, trustworthy and still whistling the same despairing tune. It hadn’t occurred to him when he’d left that if McCree had done what he’d done he would have torn out his hair on every continent looking for him, wouldn’t have slept, wouldn’t have known what to do with himself but shriek until his throat was raw and tear through every enemy they’d ever made until he found him, got him back.

And now McCree was staying quiet, quiet like a predator in long grass, down on his haunches, watching him as though he wasn’t sure about trusting him anymore, not sure if the trust he’d felt for all those years at gunpoint was still good. Something broken and fractured between them. 

“Jesse,” McCree’s eyes were already on him, “I asked you here because I need your help. I am asking you as a friend.”

McCree frowned at him, keeping quiet like he did during negotiations, let Hanzo do the talking, watching for deception, ears keen and eyes quick, waiting in the long grass for answers to questions he shouldn’t have to ask. 

Hanzo took a breath and held it. 

“Someone is trying to track me down.”

McCree’s eyes focused on him in an instant, precise and pointed, narrow, severe in that way he was so little, that way he hid most of the time, hiding his soldier’s habits, the way his eyes swept rooms and counted bodies. McCree's great talent had aways been being taken for harmless, acting the good natured American people believed him to be, friendly and not to bright. He made the stakes feel low enough that people dropped their guards like heavy burdens, fell to pieces with a single smile, forgetting the revolver at his hip and the crowd he ran with just a bat of his eyelashes. But with Hanzo, at his kitchen table, mad at him, he hid nothing, faked nothing. 

“Who?”

“I don’t know, but people have been accessing all my old accounts and aliases, social security, government identification, so on.”

McCree’s eyebrows went together. 

“This one?” 

“No, not this one. Not yet.” He watched as McCree rubbed his hand over his mouth, looking at him with his eyes hard, the same way he’d always been. _I missed you._

“Soon,” McCree said in a grunt, eyes drifting down, thinking hard. 

“I have no doubt.” 

For a long moment they were quiet, McCree thinking, Hanzo watching him think and drinking to cope with the sight, emptying his glass and pouring another as McCree thought. When the courage reached him, he spoke, hand reaching without his permission, landing on McCree’s wrist, familiar metal beneath his fingers, just to touch him, hold onto him. 

“Jesse, I want you to stay here with us,” McCree’s eyes flickered up to him, “I want you here.”

“Why? I can’t do anything you can’t do yourself.” McCree pulled his arm out of his touch, something almost rough in the movement, and it took a moment for Hanzo to realise that McCree didn’t want to be touched by him. For the first time since they’d met, McCree didn’t want to be touched by him. He didn't want to be touched by him and something in his belly howled at the the thought, howled as he came to terms with it after years of McCree making any excuse, of reaching out over and over just to feel his hands on his skin. 

He found himself snarling, drawing his hand back, horrified that it wasn’t easy as it had been, that McCree wasn’t looking at him that way that he should have done, that his actions might have consequences, belly churning. 

“Because I need to go to work, Jesse. I can’t be here all the time,” his voice came out harsh, hissing as though it was him that was angry, hands in fists on the table, eyes down, unable to believe that he had to explain it, that McCree, his McCree, needed explanations when for years all Hanzo had needed to do was ask. For years all he'd needed to do was ask and McCree would have crossed continents for him. “I have no one else in this world, Jesse. There is no one else I can ask.” 

From across the table he heard McCree scoff. 

“Oh, cut the crap Hanzo,” his eyes shot up to see McCree snarling, jerking out of his chair, “you know as well as I do that ethically speaking, you have me by the balls. Now where the fuck is your bathroom, I haven’t showered in a week.” 

Hanzo put his head down, rubbing his temples with frustration, wondering how he could still miss him when he was standing right there. He was angry and hurt but it was still his McCree, the McCree he’d worked with for years, who knew him back to front, and yet his chest was still heavy with sorrow, with regret, like some sort of homesickness. Homesick for him, for the way they'd been. But he didn’t speak of it, just dragged himself up and let his hands fall to his sides, suddenly exhausted and full of wine. 

“Down the hall to the left,” his voice came out morose, “my bedroom is the next door over, you can sleep with me.” 

McCree’s eyes went sharp as he hiked the bag he’d left by the window up his shoulder. 

“Actually, Hanzo, I think I’m gonna sleep on the couch.” 

Hanzo felt his hands curl into fists by his sides, shoulders coiled, and suddenly he wanted to hit him. He hadn’t wanted to hit McCree in a long time but suddenly all he wanted was to curl his fingers around his collar and shove him up against the kitchen cabinets so hard that the breath got knocked out of him and his brain rattled around in his skull. All he wanted was to yell at him, yell _you don’t have to do this!_

_I know! I know. I know that you’re hurt, I know that you have not forgiven me, you don’t have to do this!_

Instead he just snarled at the floor and said: 

“I’ll put out some pillows.” 

Fuck. 

...

He’d gotten the note late at night, passed from hand to hand until it had reached him, from friend to ally and back until it was pressed into his glove by one of the waiters at the joint where he was barkeeping. 

“Hey, some guy said to give this to you.” 

He’d frozen when he’d opened it up and seen his handwriting there, that particular slope of the words, every muscle tensed, hair standing on end, someone grabbing his arm to keep him upright as though he’d been shot, as though he could look down and he’d find something jutting out off him, all the breath sucked into his chest and stuck there. 

“Hey, are you alright?” 

“I have to go.” 

And he’d left. Mid way through a job, throwing his apron over his shoulder and running all the way to his hotel room, lungs burning. When he couldn’t get a flight, he’d driven, some clothes, some weapons, ammunition, a first aid kit stuffed into a duffle bag and thrown into the back of the truck he’d stolen from a gas station in Toronto. He threw himself down highway after highway, his adrenaline never letting up, not once in those three days on the road, his sleepless nights never catching up with him, not with the note stuck to the centre of the steering wheel, not with his heart racing like it was, praying with every second thought that he wasn’t mistaken.

He’d watched the house for almost two hours before he went in, staring at it, knowing that it was the one, that Hanzo was nothing if not consistent, that he’d do the same thing over and over just as long as it kept working. And this was the only house on the street rented out by a shell corporation in the Canary Islands. He’d run the plates of the sedan in the driveway, found it registered to one of Hanzo’s aliases, bought out of San Francisco eight months before, the last time they’d seen each other. Just after Hanzo had dropped off the face of the earth without a word. 

He hadn’t known what was worse. 

He’d spent eight months bouncing from awful conclusion to awful conclusion; dead, kidnapped, enslaved, dead again, turned in to authorities, tracked down by the clan, dead, tortured, and instead, instead he’d just… left. When it had hit him it was like a cannonball to the gut, left him breathless like a bull in a pen, knowing that Hanzo was in there, his Hanzo, Hanzo who he’d trusted for years, who had _left_ him. It had taken everything he had not to rip the front door off its hinges and yell, not to bang pots and pans and throw rocks through windows, stuck with the fury that roared through him, so _fucking_ angry. 

_I didn't mean for you to worry so badly, Jesse._

Jesus. _Christ._

He’d been angrier before but he couldn’t remember when, all of those nightmares for nothing, waking up in the middle of the night, searching the sheets for him, searching for something to hold onto, something that wasn’t there. All those months of imagining him dying over and over, bloody and broken, taken when he hadn’t been watching, these eight months worth of fear, of grief with nothing to latch onto, of expecting to find him in every hotel room he ended up in, not sure how many beds were enough or too many, grieving a body where he had none. Hanzo having left him to it, to mourn him, to grieve for him, had left him. 

He could hardly wrap his head around it. He hadn’t been taken, there were no signs of force, he hadn’t been taken, he had just left. How could he just leave? How dare he just fucking leave? 

And still, seeing him again for the first time, all he’d wanted was to wrap his arms around him and sob into his hair. All he’d wanted was to drag him down right there on the floor and go to sleep with his arms around him, like a guard dog awake for too long, eight months of fear, of vigilance, holding his terror in every muscle, in every limb. All he’d wanted was Hanzo close enough to feel his breathing, his heartbeat, the warmth of his skin, every confirmation of him living. 

But he couldn’t, not with some terrible heartbroken voice that wailed through his ears, _you left me,_ again and again, _you left me, you left me. I was alone._

He woke up on Hanzo’s couch when the morning came feeling rotten inside and out, every muscle sore, unshaved and unkempt, mouth dry like he was hungover or had been hit by a car. He rubbed the bad hand over his face as he sat up, blankets falling off him as he pressed cool metal into his eye sockets and groaned. 

Standing across from him, the kid scooped cereal into his mouth and stared, his hair uncombed and eyes bright, wearing a school uniform. Private school probably. Fucking Shimadas.

“Ohayō, uncle,” the kid spoke through a mouthful of cereal, wiping milk away with his sleeve when it dribbled down his chin, “what’s wrong with your arm?” 

Jesse stared at him, trying to wrap his head around the question, figure out where it had come from, looking down at the bad hand and back up at the kid.

“It’s not my arm, kid, it’s a prosthetic.” 

The boy was undeterred. 

“What’s a prosthetic?” 

Jesse groaned and dragged himself towards the kitchen. He needed a coffee, he needed to brush his teeth, he needed to figure out how the fuck he was going execute this, if he wanted to execute this, or if he wanted to dig himself a shallow grave in the backyard and stay there until he died of exposure because everything had gotten so fucking complicated. _He left me._

The kid followed him with his cereal.

“Uncle, what’s a prosthetic?” 

Jesse dug through the pantry.

“It’s something that I use as an arm ‘cause I lost mine, where’s your brother?”

The kid set his empty bowl down on the counter and kept at it, eyes on his back, persistent little bastard. 

“He’s in the shower, what happened to you arm?” 

Jesse shoved a bread roll into his mouth as he turned back to him, frowning as he chewed, feeling self conscious enough to stuff the bad hand under his armpit and keep it there. 

“You always ask this many questions?” 

He watched Genji grin. 

“My teacher said I’m inquisitive,” he had dimples that Hanzo didn’t have, brighter eyes, less severe, but Jesse could see just looking at him that he had bits of Hanzo in him. He had that quick intensity, like stock whips the both of them, slow and easy until the snap and crack. In Hanzo it had always been a sound of combat, of a bow string release, pulled through the air like lightening, of the voice he used when there were hostages, the screech of tires on asphalt. But Genji was looking at him as though he delighted in the act, pulling at his threads, figuring out how he was put together, what a prosthetic was, where his arm had gone, hungry for information, delighted when it came. 

“Yeah, well, your teacher’s right,” Jesse shoved some more bread into his mouth and buried his head back into the pantry, filling his arms with condiments and whatever else he could find, the kid’s eyes on him on as he ate peanut butter off a knife. 

“Are you eating that for breakfast?” His expression didn’t imply he approved of him, the way he slumped down at their dining table and emptied packets of potato chips into his mouth, and Jesse couldn’t help but laugh at him. Truely, the resemblance was uncanny. Jesse knew Hanzo’s face like the back of his hand, the slope of his nose, the curve of his eyelashes, the way he frowned, spoke, knew him in profile, from above and from below, and the kid was made of parts of him, all spliced together in a mixing pot of genetics. Jesse took a bite of an apple. 

“Breakfast's a construct, kid,” he said through a mouthful. 

And instantly, that look came into his keen little eyes, hungry for answers, full of questions, ready in a half second to argue the validity of breakfast, ask why it was him that got to declare that, what qualified him for that position, if he was vulnerable to a mutiny of some sort. But before he could, Hanzo stepped forward into the kitchen and all eyes swept towards him. 

“Good morning all.” 

And immediately something in him seized, immediately something in him snarled, his stomach in knots, made of magnets repulsed by each other, thrown in opposite directions. There were parts of him that wanted nothing but to growl, to hiss and make a fuss, that wanted to stand and leave the room, that wanted to punish him, that wanted vengeance. And then there were parts of him that wanted to stand and wrap his arms around him, hold him close and tell him everything, all those nights he'd spent alone wondering where he was, if he was okay. 

Instead he stayed still, stayed still and tried to look hostile, eyes down on the table, anything to keep from opening his mouth and letting something poisonous out, commanded by the part of him that didn’t want anyone knowing he was so easily hurt, that he had wounds still open. 

Genji, oblivious, blew onwards. 

“Anija, you already said good morning to me.” 

“I know,” Hanzo conceded, his gaze never shifting from Jesse’s temple, “but it's important to make an entrance when someone has been rifling through your cupboards.” Genji looked as though if he’d had a pen and paper he would have written that down, hanging on every word. McCree rubbed his hand over his mouth and tried not to move, not sure where to look now, not with the darkness that swirled through him, that whining voice twisting though his ears, _you left me, how dare you fucking leave me?_

“Jesse.” 

And yet his eyes snapped up when Hanzo said his name, looking up at him looking back. 

“Did you sleep well? On the couch?” 

There was something so pointed about it, as though he knew that his neck hurt and his feet hung over the side, that he hadn't slept well, of course he hadn't slept well. _So did you sleep well on the couch? Did you sleep well on the couch when you could have slept with me in my four poster bed and those lovely sheets I always buy even thought they’re as expensive as sin? Sleep well, asshole?_

“I slept fine,” he spat. _You left me._

“Good,” Hanzo sneered at him and he sneered back, “I’m glad.” Genji grinned as though he was watching a pair of athletes compete, whacking a ball back and forth with every ounce of spite and rage that had built up over all the months they’d spent apart and Jesse forced his eyes back down because he couldn’t bear to look at him, not when he looked exactly like he had. 

Fucking Hanzo and his fucking suits, him and the way he tied back his hair, the way his skin was always so soft, the way he always smelt of the same aftershave, the whole time he’d known him, always smelling like himself. And to this day it made him want to bury his nose into his throat and breathe it in, and weep, weep for those months that he spent without him, all by himself thinking he was gone. 

Before the thought came back, and he found himself snarling down at the table. _You fucking left me._

Genji laughed in the silence, an almost nervous sound, laughing at them, at their charades. 

“You guys are weird,” he giggled. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the feeling was strangely surreal, standing in the door way, looking at him, knowing that it had to be worse than all those other times they holed up in some suburb, going underground for a few months until the fuss blew over and they could go back to work.
> 
> He figured it had to be the kid, it had to be the school bag slung over his shoulder, the groceries in each hand, it had to be Hanzo, his Hanzo who could kill a man in seven seconds working some white collar job.

He spent the day at his desk, spinning pens in his fingers with his eyes unfocused. 

People came in and out of his office all morning to ask him questions, give him information, offer niceties, and he ignored them all, sitting with his chin balanced on the back of his wrist while he replayed the morning over and over. He went back over each moment like a detective trying to stitch a story together, McCree sitting at the dining table, talking to Genji with the bad hand stuffed under his arm, his eyes glimmering and his mouth curling as he’d smiled, looking exactly like himself until suddenly he was someone else, someone cold.

Hanzo remembered standing in the doorway looking at him, knowing that again the only words he could produce were _I missed you._

He’d missed the way he never sat straight at tables, the way his hair went in all directions, missed the way he spoke and chose his words, the way he wore his shirts half buttoned and never straightened his collar. There was nothing about him that had gone unmissed, and all he’d been able to think as he’d looked at McCree sitting at his table was _I missed you and its good that you're here. You will make things right._

And yet.

For years now he’d been walking into rooms and Jesse had been looking at him, smiling at him, grinning, telling him jokes. He’d had years of his attention, of his friendship, companionship, love, years of never going without it. And now all he had left was his silence, was a coldness he’d never felt before, McCree’s shoulders still, his eyes flickering away, every part of him stiff. 

For a moment, Hanzo hadn’t been able to see it, the message in some language he didn’t know, unable to understand it. Instead he’d wanted to reach out, touch him, be looked at by him; he’d wanted to smile and say _don’t worry, it's only me._

Before he’d realised that McCree knew it was him, that that was the problem. 

And he hated it. He hated it like some small child, twitching and roaring and unable to understand, that still stood with hardened fists, wanting to say something awful just so that McCree would look at him, wanting to hurt him just so that McCree might hurt him back. 

It made him think of Oslo, of the cold in those early years. McCree had lost his temper and Hanzo had watched it happen from across the room, powerless to stop it as McCree had snarled and twitched until he couldn’t take it any longer and had thrown some halfwit into a stack of chairs, pointed a pistol at his temple when he rose. And when it was done, the operation blown and beyond repair, the call not yet come from Reyes to tell them to get their sorry asses home, Hanzo had hit him, hard, right on the nose, sent him stumbling backwards, screaming “How could you be so fucking stupid!” 

And McCree had let him, had dabbed the blood from his nose and glanced at him as he’d heaved with his fists clenched and teeth bared, had said, “yeah,” with something defeated in his voice, eyes drifting down, “yeah, I reckon I deserve that.” 

“Yes, you fucking do,” Hanzo had answered. 

But at least then, at least then McCree had looked at him, had spoken to him, had crept into his room that night with his nose patched and his eyes down. He’d offered his apologies with his voice quiet, his elbows on his knees and hands clasped, had asked to be trusted again. And Hanzo had done, had forgiven when asked, had known he would before McCree had even slunk back to him with his tail between his legs and apology on his shoulders. Hanzo had known even then that he was quick to anger, quick to snarl, to bite, but with McCree, with McCree he always found the tide receding, his grievances slipping through his fingers, looking at him with the anger melting away as quickly as it had come, forgiveness coming easy. 

But McCree’s anger was slow to rise, had always been. 

He couldn’t say if McCree was the sort of man that forgave.

He spent the day trying to think of times that McCree had been angry with him, what he’d done then, how he’d fixed it, how long he could expect this to last, but he came up with nothing. Never before had he felt the heat of McCree’s temper on his skin, knowing that he’d never counted himself lucky when it was brought down on another. It had never occurred to him that it could be turned on even him, not when McCree laughed at his jokes and kissed his cheeks so often.

And now, here he was, sitting at his desk trying to think of ways of reminding McCree that he thought Hanzo was excellent, had told him so for years, that they were partners, that it was hell or high water for them. 

He remembered the first time McCree had said it, remembered the smell of cigar smoke on his hair as he’d stood beside him, the sound of McCree’s voice going firm, _I just want you to know, Shimada, that from here on out, I’ve got you. From here on out its hell or high water for us._ Hanzo didn’t know what had triggered it, what it was that had made McCree choose him, but he had, he’d chosen him like someone finding a good hill to die on and setting up camp, building a barricade. He hadn’t known then what it meant, the decision made like McCree had tied a rope between them and made sure the knot was good, unable to recognise loyalty when it came to him, not realising that for the first time in his life there was someone watching his bowl, someone making sure he got enough. 

And now it made Hanzo want to take him by the ears and whisper _McCree, have you forgotten? You told me it was hell or high water for us, you chose me._

Instead he rubbed at his eyes, stuck feeling as though he had no answers, as though everything was all wrong and he was so tired.

He yearned for the way it had been like he was homesick, like he was hungry, aching until he could think of nothing but that he’d missed him, missed the width of his chest and the span of his shoulders. He missed finding him in his bedsheets in the middle of the night, his steady breathing, the warmth of his skin, missed knowing that they were tied together with rope, that McCree had chosen him. And all he wanted was for it to be as it had been, was for McCree to go back to smiling at him when he entered rooms. 

Instead, he was stuck in the silent fluorescence of his office and all he could do was wish he’d know he was fucking up when he’d been doing it. 

…

He spent the morning in his underwear, walking around the house while he waited for his clothes to be done in the dryer and for the misery to shift out of his chest. But it never did.

Instead, he walked in and out of every room with a notepad, taking stock of all windows, entry points, vents, chimneys, interior and exterior doors, letting the task take him, letting it shut everything else down. Once his jeans were out of the dryer he even went outside, making note of the foliage in the front yard, the perimeter lines, foot traffic, vehicle traffic, taking down the licence plates of the cars in neighbouring driveways and parked along the street for future reference. Meticulous, pretty good at his job, whatever. 

If Hanzo had called him here to keep the kid safe then that was what he would do. He’d do it with his father’s dogged bitterness and heartbreak in his belly, working with his head down and his hands busy, just to keep from thinking of him.

For eight months he’d been trying not to think of him, trying not to think of him dead or stuck in some dark room with his wrists bound, trying not to think of the way he snarled, the colour of his skin when he bruised, his hair bloody and breathing ragged. He’d spent eight months trying not to calculate how long he’d be able to go without food, how long he could go in captivity, how long he’d hold out before he realised that Jesse had no fucking idea where he was, wasn’t coming for him. He hadn’t been able to think of it, not without a pain so bad it almost sent him into convulsions, hands shaking as he tied his boot laces, breaths constantly catching in his throat. 

And now he was stuck not thinking of him because if he did he was going to start setting fire to his things.

Instead, he made plans for a security system. He made a floor plan and marked spots on the wall where he’d the security cameras, marked the doors for motion sensors, the windows for deadlocks, and he worked, he worked for lack of other options, worked and made lists and kept busy just to keep from thinking of him, anything to keep from thinking of him. 

When he needed to he let himself into Hanzo’s room as though it was someone else’s, a stranger, someone whose possessions he didn’t recognise, whose tastes he didn’t know, knowing that it was easier not to know him. It was easier to think that they’d never met, that Hanzo had never grown warm around him, that there was nothing between them that could be written on paper. 

And yet, he found himself on nearly every surface. 

He found the silk scarf he’d given Hanzo in Morocco slung over the arm of a chair. He found an old band t-shirt he thought he’d lost folded in one of the dresser drawers. He found an old Polaroid of them in the early days, still standing a foot apart faded between the pages of a Wild West novel. He found his own dog tags hanging from the mirror, his favourite soap in the ensuite, the kind Hanzo had always bought for him. He found Gabe’s silver pen in a jar on the vanity, a hotel key they’d stayed in once, a postcard he’d sent years before.

And looking at it, able to recognise it all, knowing that something was severed, that something was broken, he couldn’t keep his defences from crumbling, couldn’t help the sense of loss that filled him, stuck feeling as though something had been taken from him, something he couldn’t get back. All he could do was find himself sitting on Hanzo’s side of the bed with his his head in his hands, thinking _how? How could this happen? How could you leave me?_

He remembered what Gabe had said to him, right before that first mission together, still young, still thinking he had it all down, _it's not forever, kid. Just don’t kill him, thats all you have to do._

_It's not forever._

If that hadn’t sealed his fate, little else would have done the trick.

He hadn’t known it then, still with both of his arms, the Shimada still new and still bitter, known for breaking the wrists that reached for him, known for snarling and saying only the things he knew would sting. Neither of them had realised that from that very first moment, his handshake refused, Hanzo’s eyes filled with scorn that what they were looking at was an eternity. 

And now he was stuck with it, stuck with Hanzo, a man who had left him, stuck with the hurt still lodged in his throat, stuck with that whining voice that just couldn’t get over it, _you left me, how could you leave me?_ And he didn’t know how long he would be able to take his own lack of forgiveness, Hanzo’s lack of remorse, living in his house, surrounded by evidence that they’d come in a pair, that they’d taken care of each other for years and years and that it hadn’t mattered. 

Hanzo had still left him. 

There was nothing more to it than that and it was so heavy, it was heavy like an ache, like a scar that had healed all wrong, a constant dragging pain, barbs embedded in his skin, knowing that he had to get up, he had to get up, nose pressed into Hanzo’s scarf, he had to get up.

He had to get out of the house, he had to get away from all of this stuff, all of the accumulated evidence of a life he knew so well, things he’d accumulated as well, the other half to all of Hanzo’s matching sets. He had to get out of here, away from this clawing horror, like grief, like fear, a hand around his throat, always making it hard to breathe, dragging himself into the truck he’d stolen out of Toronto and pressing his forehead against the steering wheel. All he could do was close his eyes and try to practice breathing, figuring out how to live with his this ache so steady in his chest it like he was always on the verge of drowning.

After a little while he managed to press the key into the ignition, ready to be comforted by the steady sound of the engine, comforted by the thought that maybe he could just sink back into work from here, he could call Reyes, get an assignment, drive to the airport, he could just go, try to forget. Instead he rubbed his eyes, sighed, and just, he just did what he had to do. He swapped the Toronto truck for a couple grand and beaten up Ford older than sin that barely ran. He spent two hours in a hardware store, and befriended a mechanic and he tried to make it look easy no matter how it felt like there was bank safe weighing on his chest and a golfball lodged in his throat. 

And he went to get Genji from school. 

He picked Genji up from school despite how strange it felt, picking up a kid, Hanzo’s kid, picking up Hanzo's kid from school. The thought made his heart pound, Hanzo’s kid, kid brother, that wry little thing from the morning, dimples, thinking of it while he waited on the school grounds with his eyes down and his shoulders in, standing alongside a small gaggle of mothers feeling all out of place. All he could feel was unqualified for this, unprepared, unprepared to be without him, all off balance and out of order. For years he’d been prepared to love anything he loved, to give away his time on a dime; if Hanzo had said to him that he wanted a kid, Jesse would have gone and gotten him a kid, in a heartbeat, without thinking, but nothing could have prepared him for the kid Hanzo had wanted without him. It took him out at the knees. 

He remembered the day he'd found out that his dad had finally kicked it, Gabe’s voice grim and his eyes down; he remembered that Hanzo had come for him when he lost his shit, when he lost his nerve and bolted like a dog out of a gate. Hanzo had found him back in New Mexico after three days later of rigging bar fights like he’d done in his youth, never sobering up long enough to get hungover, trapped in a crowded bar, hitting anything that moved, knuckles bruised, teeth bared. He could remember only wrath, wrath for days, blind and out of control like he was still a kid, an awful conflicted grief twisted in his belly, mourning a man he’d hated, that had treated him badly from birth, unable to process any of it. 

“I have given you three days, Jesse,” Hanzo had said, voice clear, standing in front of him in his good blue suit, solid and perfect and pristine in the beer-soaked bar, “it’s time for you to come home now.” And he’d caved. He’d caved because it was Hanzo, because he’d come for him, because he was tired, because his dad was dead and he didn’t know what he was supposed to do with the thought that it hadn’t even been him to do the deed. He’d caved for lack of other options, for lack of want of them.

And for a week afterwards Hanzo stayed with him in a hotel room, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, never shouting, always speaking gently, putting him back together brick by brick with steady hands, as though he had no rush, as though he could take all the time that he needed. He cooked every night, sat beside the bathtub while he bathed as though he knew how Jesse’s chest tightened when he was out of the room, fingers trailing on the water, kissing his forehead when he rose to check on the rice. 

And Hanzo took care of him like only he could, stroked his hair and told him “Jesse,” called him by his first name and held his head in his hands, “Jesse, there was no virtue to that man, but if what you need is to be sad for him, you can. You are allowed to be sad, my love, it is not forgiveness.” 

It was in that week Jesse asked him to marry him for the first time, nose buried into his throat, arms wrapped around him, hands gripped into the back of his shirt. And Hanzo had laughed, had stroked his hair and told him not to be foolish, “I’m not going anywhere,” he’d said. And Jesse was never quite sure what sort of answer that was, but it was enough, it was enough to hear him say it, that he was a sure bet. It was enough not to have to worry about being without him. 

And yet, here he was, standing alone in a school playground, knowing that even if Hanzo been right beside him, he still would have been without him. _I’m not going anywhere._ It had been a beautiful lie while it had lasted. 

…

When he got home from work, McCree’s pick up truck was gone from where it had been parked and the street was quiet, his heart heavy. He’d thought of no answers, still not sure how to navigate from the choppy waters, thinking only of him while he drove home, thinking of everything they’d been through, everything he’d lost, of how they’d been in the beginning, that cautious coldness, the feeling of being a stranger to him. 

When he’d first met McCree he had been in his combat clothes, looking just like everyone else; remembered that he’d stood with his jaw raised, his hair tied back and his eyes still cold, a revolver strapped to his hip. He remembered looking at McCree and thinking him just another bowlegged American with a gun, just another man offering his hand, expecting it to be shaken, just another liability demanding things he wouldn’t give. He remembered looking up at him, his McCree, remembered noting first his golden eyes as every muscle went stiff, remembered being looked at by him and knowing that he was being seen too clearly, that this man could see through everything. And it had frightened him; it had frightened him to be seen so steadily.

It had taken him years to feel as though he could let McCree look. 

It had taken years to realise that it was okay if it was McCree, that there was something about him that made it okay, something in the way he liked to stand with his hands on his hips when he was thinking, the way he lost his temper but never with him, cared enough about being good to leave bullets in their chambers. It took him years to realise that there was there was something good about being seen by him, about being seen so clearly, having someone who saw through him, whose gaze was steady and clear. 

In the first few years, he’d found it easiest in the car, sitting in the passenger seat looking at him, watching him drive, knowing that McCree’s eyes would stay on the road, that he’d go unseen for a little while. From the passenger he learned how to look back, to look a McCree and see all the parts of him that weren’t the way they should have been, his crooked smile, his light fingers, the orders he didn’t oblige, the lies he told, looking at him as he drove, one hand on the wheel and the other out the window, the breeze blowing through his hair. 

It was in the passenger seat that he figured for the first time that he was glad. He was glad for that first mission that had gone horribly, he was glad for all the failed partners that had come before him, he was glad that out of everyone he could have ended up with, he’d ended up with McCree, bowlegged and clear eyed. He hadn’t known then what that sense of gladness meant. He’d been twenty three and had never been close to someone before, he’d had no experience with looking at someone and feeling a flicker of warmth, he’d had no experience with warmth at all, hadn’t been able to recognise the signs. 

But he was older now, he knew what it meant. 

He knew what it meant even as he pulled up his own driveway knowing that he could expect no welcome, no hand on his spine, no kiss to his cheek. 

Still, he only got a step and a half into the house before he realised that something was wrong, frozen with the doorknob still in his hand. Genji was a loud child, far louder than he’d been; he did not play quietly, he didn’t even do his homework quietly, and McCree could be stealthy when he wanted to be, but his boots were gone from the door and the house was silent, had been for hours, he could tell. And immediately panic seized in his chest, standing in his own doorway with his heart in his throat, keys gripped in his hand. No McCree, no Genji, terror. 

Immediately his mind was filled with awful images, of them jumped on the way home from school, a car crash, ambulance lights, the smell of blood, McCree with his eyes glassy on the asphalt, neck all twisted, body sprawled, Genji screaming, both of them gone. He couldn’t stomach the thought, he couldn’t live with it, couldn’t breathe through it, hands shaking as he reached for his phone, holding it to his ear with his teeth ground in his mouth, listening to it ring with his hand fisted in his own shirt. 

McCree answered on the third ring and he almost collapsed with relief. 

“Howdy.”

“Where the fuck are you?” Hanzo hardly recognised himself, the voice that came out of him, harsher than he’d used in months, an old voice, the voice he used on missions, when everything felt so life and death, when it all felt fragile, held together with wire and tape. 

There was a pause. 

“The park?” 

And for some reason, the answer infuriated him, stepping further into the house and slamming the door behind him. 

“What the fuck are you doing at the fucking park, Jesse?” He was breathless just getting to the end of the sentence, almost doubled over as he stumbled, the words ragged and rough, forced out of him in a bark, the terror still so powerful in him, a frightened animal made of glass. 

There was another pause, the sound of chatter in the background, McCree’s voice muffled by something, warmer than when he spoke to him, and then:

“Brother!” 

Dammit. He felt the rage whistle out of him like the air out of a balloon, sizzling down into irritation, frustration, some lesser feeling, unable to maintain the anger, not with his younger brother on the other end of the phone. 

“Yes, hello, Genji, could you plea-”

Genji cut him off, no manners. 

“Brother, we ate eclairs! And we went to the store and I saw a man wearing dispensers and today at school we learned about rocks, and then we went to the park and saw ducks, and oh, oh, Uncle Jesse wants to talk to you.” There was another pause, more hushed voices and Hanzo lay down on the living room carpet in his work clothes, fucking exhausted after a long day of doing nothing and thena few moments almighty panic, stomach aching, still holding on to his own shirt. 

“Suspenders,” McCree’s cold voice clarified, “we saw a man wearing suspenders.” From the floor, Hanzo twitched with rage. 

“Jesse, you better get him the fuck home-”

“Don’t yell at me,” McCree’s voice was firm and something in him shivered, receded like a tide shrinking back into the sea, a golfball lodged in his throat, covering his eyes with his hand. “We’ll be home fifteen.” For a moment there was silence, as though he meant to say something, _I love you, don’t worry, hell or high water, honey_ , something, anything, any memory of what had been, the years they spent together, seeing clearly. 

But instead he just hung up, and Hanzo was left on the floor with his eyes squeezed closed and his heart pounding, feeling that everything was all wrong and he didn’t have any idea how to put it right. He didn’t know how to fix this, he didn’t know how to earn his forgiveness, he didn’t know how to open his mouth and whisper _I miss you, I love you, I asked you here because it felt all wrong without you, please forgive me._

He didn’t know how to explain that he’d been twenty three, he hadn’t known what the gladness had meant when it had filled him, the warmth that flickered in his chest, something in him that made him want to make McCree laugh. He’d been so young then, they both had, and even now that he was old and knew all that it meant, he wouldn’t ask to be rid of it. He’d just ask to be loved again, to be forgiven. That was all he wanted. 

Instead he was left with only the dial tone and his heart made of pins and needles, waiting for them to get home, wondering how he could live with himself knowing that he'd caused McCree to feel that terror for months on end and didn't even know how to apologise. 

…

Hanzo was waiting for them when they got home, barely out of his work clothes, sitting on the couch looking as though he’d been carved from stone, sitting with one leg crossed over the other, shoulders straight, hair untied, eyes narrow. And the feeling was strangely surreal, standing in the door way, looking at him, knowing that it had to be worse than all those other times they holed up in some suburb, going underground for a few months until the fuss blew over and they could go back to work.

He figured it had to be the kid, it had to be the school bag slung over his shoulder, the groceries in each hand, it had to be Hanzo, his Hanzo who could kill a man in seven seconds working some white collar job. It had to be the school, the barbecue he’d been invited to come Friday, it had to be question that lingered over the day, that lingered over him like an easy sun, wondering what they would have for dinner. It had to be the way Hanzo’s eyes settled on him, annoyed, the way some weak willed part of him wanted so badly to smile at him, to smile because he was beautiful, because he’d always wanted this, this quietness, this ease, coming home to him. 

And he wanted so badly to laugh, to reach out, for it be as it had been, to kiss him and forgive him and be forgiven by him, but instead he was frozen at the door, instead Hanzo just regarded him coldly and something in him wailed. _How could you? How could you._

“Hello, Jesse.” 

And there was so much more that he wanted, so many things that he couldn’t count them on both hands, so many that they rattled through him like pinballs, that they flurried through his chest. 

He wanted to hurt him, he wanted to touch him, he wanted to spit out every venomous thing he could think of. He hadn’t gotten laid in eight months and kind of wanted to fuck him, he wanted to leave, he wanted to climb back into the beaten up Ford and drive down to Mexico, he wanted for this to be over, he wanted to forgive, he wanted to execute some awful vengeance.

Instead he just snarled, snarled in that way he never had, not with Hanzo, and walked away, unable to say even a word.

Instead he just unpacked the groceries to the sound of Genji bouncing in, scrambling up onto couch full of words and questions and exciting thoughts, chatting without needing Hanzo to even speak,Jesse stuck listening for his voice from the kitchen even though it made him ache. Instead Genji just rattled on about where they’d gone, his fixation on the suspenders they’d seen and Jesse put the coffee away with a darkness so heavy it felt like an anvil in his back. 

The misery was so strong it made him slow, made him lethargic, left him sitting on the edge of the bath before his shower uncoupling the bad hand from its socket with an extraordinarily tiredness in his chest. And still all he wanted was to talk to Hanzo about it, knowing that he’d missed talking to him, knowing that he wasn’t really sure what to do with his problems anymore, not after laying them out in front of him for so many years. Instead he just wrapped the bad hand in a towel to keep the steam out and stripped off, showering just to keep from having to look at him, from being in the house with him, knowing that if he wanted the bad hand dry he could rise, put it in the kitchen where it would be safe, but for the moment, he just didn’t think he could manage opening the door. 

He remembered that the first arm had been waterproof and sometimes he missed it, built to be hardier than it was dexterous, built to remind him that it wouldn’t be taken twice, that the sacrifice wasn’t that bad, he could let it go and trust the substitute. He’d made it last for two years before he lost patience with broken glasses and crushed doorknobs, with being afraid of leaving bruises on precious things. The second arm had been a hand-me-down, a gift he’d called it, the wiring constantly on the flick before it got run over by a utility vehicle after a year or two and that was that. 

The third arm had only survived for a month before he lost it. Taken out by a hand grenade. 

He remembered the shameless panic that had roared through him when it had happened, watching it land beside them, softly smoking on the ground, knowing that they couldn’t get away in time, knowing that their armour was good, but not that good. He remembered pushing Hanzo behind him like a flinch, hand down, and the sudden feeling of all those brand new nerves turning to shrapnel, the heat of the explosion on his face, the incredible pain, Hanzo’s hand gripped in the back of his serape. The next thing he could remember was his arm again in tatters, was metal fragments now embedded all down right side, his blood back soaking into the ground, and Hanzo staring down at him with his dark eyes wide as his vision had doubled and blurred, ears ringing.

“Get the fuck up, Jesse,” were the words he’d used, voice desperate, “please get up.” 

And he’d lost the arm. But they’d lived. That was what was important. They’d lived. 

For two weeks afterwards they’d recovered in matching hospital gowns, hobbling into each other’s rooms to play cards and drink contraband spirits, laughing at each other’s singed eyebrows and battle scars. 

Hanzo had come with him to get the bad hand fitted, had stood beside him with his hand on his hip, making him a bet that he could get rid of this one even quicker. But it was the best one yet, perfect, they both agreed; hard to blow up, mostly waterproof, dexterous, he could bend the bars on the windows and when he touched things he felt them, he really felt them. 

He could remember touching Hanzo for the first time with the bad hand, running his fingertips down his side and being able to feel his body heat, the softness of his skin, remembered doing it over and over for hours while Hanzo had slept beside him, rediscovering every texture, each dip and curve. He hadn’t slept at all. 

He fell into the shower thinking of it, of the way it had felt to touch him, as if he’d never done it before, would never again, falling asleep under the hot water so consistently cursed by him, listening to footsteps moving around the house with his eyes closed, listening to the house he found himself in, not sure that he could withstand the self destruction of loving someone who had left him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this because I love domestic life and because I am shamelessly nostalgic for the suburbs but I've ended up doing a lot of thinking about forgiveness and unconditional love. 
> 
> What does it mean to love someone unconditionally and be unable to forgive them, how do you sit still while those two forces causes damage to you, how do you make it work? And what does it mean to go unforgiven by someone you love and know that you deserve it? How do you not just fall to pieces at the thought? I once broken one of my mother's favourite bits of china and I had known that it was her favourite and that it had been given to her by her mother before she died and I was careless with it anyway. And after it shattered on our kitchen floor, I wept for HOURS. 
> 
> Consider this a study in weight. 
> 
> Hope you are enjoying so far.


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